An old man's memories
by Bagge
Summary: Tonks works extra as an obliviator, a job that can produce unexpected challenges. Unfinished.
1. The flying car

**An old man's memories**

_Tonks works extra as an obliviator, a job that can produce unexpected challenges._

Charles strained his eyes to see the small, cramped text in the dim light of his study. His stuffy desk was overflowing with newspaper cuttings, books and computer-printouts. An old typewriter stood cramped into one corner. He had cleared a small space in the middle of the desk, just enough for a large cup of tea. It was still half-filled, but cold and completely forgotten. The day had turned to evening and he had not noticed. He had it now. He really had.

'Yes, yes' he muttered for himself, reading the letter again. 'That flying car was seen in London in the morning, flying north. An hour later in Stamford, and then again in Scotland. Three different observations, and the timing is right. It is for real! It really is!'

He could feel the triumph building in him. Weirdo, they had called him. Stupid. Mad old fraud. Waste of time. But now he would show them. Something was going on, right under their noses. Something extraordinary. And he was on to it. The doorbell rang, interrupting him in his thoughts.

'Coming' he yelled, standing up from his old chair with a crack. He had been sitting there for hours, he realized. No wonder his back was stiff.

Limping, the old man moved to the door as fast as he cold, kicking away the stray books and clothes to make it seem a bit less untidy for the visitor. A bit out of breath he opened the door.

He was amazed to see a young girl standing outside - no more than twenty or thirty years old. She wore baggy jeans, a green coat and a t-shirt with something written on, which he couldn't read without his glasses. Her hair was pink as a neon sign. In her hand she held what might have been a wooden pen.

'Hello mr Newbury!' she said, smiling at him.

'Er... Good evening, young miss... er, Do I have the pleasure to know you?'

'You don't remember me? Terrific!' she said, looking pleased. 'May I come in?'

'Miss... er... Not meaning to be rude, but what can I help you with?'

'Oh, yes of course. Sorry, where are my manners. My name is Nymphadora Tonks, Tonks for short, and I work for the Ministry of Magic. The oblivation bureau.' She extended her hand and he took it, shaking it distractedly.

'The ministry. I see. Er... I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you say...'

'May I come in?'

'Sorry, of course, please come right in. I am sorry it is a little untidy, er... May I offer you a cup of tea? Now ...Did you say...'

Tonks walked past him, into his flat, hanging her coat on the hook next to the door and continuing straight to the kitchen.

'Tea would be lovely, please'

He followed her as fast as he could. She was already busy with the kettle when he arrived into the kitchen, and the water seemed already to boil.

'Sit down Charles, I take care of this.'

And before he really knew what had happened, two big mugs of tea were produced and they were sitting at the table.

'Thank you very much' she said, smiling again. I like your place. It is cosy in they way you can't get a place without living in it for a long time.

'Er... thank you miss... Tonks? ...I must have misheard you. Which department did you say you work for?'

'The Oblivation Bureau, at the ministry of magic.'

'Of... magic?'

'Yes. I understand it must come as something of a surprise for you, but all witches and wizards in Britain are governed by the ministry of magic. We try to minimize the harmful contact between wizards and muggles - that is, non-magical people. Sometimes something accidentally happens though, as that flying car for example.'

'You... know of the car?'

'Yes of course. It is actually a friend of mine who bewitched it. He is an old dear, but he is far to fascinated by muggle artefacts to be very sensible all the times.'

'But I found out of the car only minutes ago so...'

'Yes Charles. That is why I am here. Have you finished your tea? Good.'

And she pointed at his head with that wodden stick.

'_Obliviate_'


	2. The Bristol murder

_Rowling owns Tonks and any other reference to the wizarding world I might mention. I own Charles. I have no idea who owns Soho square._

Unsteadily, Charles stood up from the sofa. He must have fallen asleep there again last night. Yawning he went out to the kitchen. Through the window he could see that it was already in the middle of the day. A bit surprised he noted that there were two clean cups in the plate rack. Strange. He rarely used more than one cup, and Charles was a creature of habit. Oh well. Brewing fresh tea and making a sandwich he pondered about the last day. He had been reading, as usual, and he had a nagging feeling that he had come across something interesting. But what it was slipped his mind for the moment. Sitting down at the table and turning on the radio, he reflected sadly that age was creeping up on him. His memory was not what it had been.

The sun was shining through the slightly dirty window, making the dust dance in the rays. He regarded the people walking at Soho square outside his flat. There were a few tourists strolling around, enjoying the sights. A family of Chinese appearance with two little girls who were chasing each other were crossing the square. A man in the official jacket of the city council was picking up trash from the street. The leaves were falling from the trees, coloring the world orange. An old song was on the radio. Charles enjoyed it, but couldn't remember the name of the artist. The tea tasted good, but the bred was a bit stale. He thought about going to the store, but it was not his shopping-day. Charles was a creature of habit, after all.

The song had finished and a newsreader started to tell about the events of the last few days. A strike in France. A meeting in Brussel. A murder in Bristol. The world was keeping in shape, Charles concluded. He was waiting for the weather forecasting, but the newsreader was still talking about the Bristol murder. There seemed to be no clear idea of how the victim had died, and the circumstances were unclear. With rising interest Charles listened to the details about how the room had been locked and the body without marks. There had been signs of a fight. When the news were told (and the weather was forecasted to bring rain) Charles turned off the radio and thoughtfully stood up. This reminded him of something he mused as he cleaned his cup.

With stiff joints he walked into his study and opened his journal, scribbling down the news as well as the date. He also made a note of buying a newspaper to get a written account of the murder. Then he brought down a large clip-book from its shelf and started to go through it. Yes, he remembered correctly. There had been similar cases. No visible sign of violence, no trace of poison. Often hard to explain how the murderer had been able to get to the victim at all, through locked door or past multiple potential witnesses. He started to write down the names and dates, and was surprised about the amount of cases. And many of the events had probably never reached the newspapers, he pondered. Indeed, in many of the articles he had saved the possibility was discussed that some kind of medical problem, such as a heart attack, had caused the death. He regarded his writings and thought. There seemed to have been a peak of these deaths in the beginning of the eighties, and after that they had quite rapidly diminished, even if a few had been heard of after that as well. The eighties? Why then? He flipped the pages of his journals until he reached the notes about the events of November 1981. Oh yes, that had been quite spectacular. Unexplainable fireworks. Shooting stars. All those weird people dancing down the streets. Charles remembered talking to a few of them. Muggle they had called him... Muggle... A word meaning... Nonwizard? Yes, he found the notice about it, just a ramble of a strange person some bored journalist had been publishing in a local paper during the news draught a few years later. Charles had been wondering about that connection before but had dismissed it as some kind of underground culture. Now he wondered though. Were there some connection between the deaths and people calling themselves wizards... or was it possible to believe they did not simply call themselves, but actually were, wizards?

With a beating heart Charles began to flip through the clip-book again. Yes, there were more things connecting the deaths. Many of the victims were considered odd-balls by their neighbors. Dressing funny, not doing anything for their living as far as anyone knew, strange friends. Almost living outside society... or living inside another society? Wizards. Fighting each other probably. He was on to something now. He really was! He knew it!

The doorbell rang. With his thoughts racing Charles tried to get up from the chair, only to realize that he had been sitting at his desk for hours and that his joints were now loudly protesting about the unexpected exercise. A bit dizzy from sudden drop in blood pressure he made it to the door hoping that whoever was outside did not give up waiting. He opened the door and was surprised to see a girl outside. She was in her teens or somewhat older, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the text "Weird Sisters". Her hair was pink as in an American movie. She smiled friendly at him and extended her hand.

'Hello Mr. Newbury' she said brightly. 'My name is Nymphadora Tonks, but please don't mind the Nymphadora part. I am Tonks for my friends. I work for the ministry. Would you mind me coming in and asking a few questions?'

He tried to sort his thoughts. She seemed to be friendly enough, but right now he did not want visitors. He was on to something big and he very much wanted to write it down and investigate it further before it slipped away. Still, if she was from the government as she said, it would be very rude indeed not to let her in. A thought struck him. He had read in the paper a few weeks ago about criminals tricking their way into elder people's home to rob them. But the girl at his door looked so sweet. He shook her hand and made up his mind.

'Very well, miss... Tonks? But it can't take much time. I am busy, you see.'

'Don't worry Charles. It will be quick.' And he let her in and closed the door. She took of her coat and walked into the kitchen.

'Please sit down and I will make us some tea!' she said and filled the kettle with water. A bit surprised, he sat down in the sofa. Tonks quickly produced two mugs of tea and found his sugar bowl. She seemed to find her ways in his kitchen perfectly, and even produced some cake from her bag. Then she joined him at the table.

'And you are fine?' she asked conversationally and took a sip of her tea. 'Have the health?'

'Why... er... yes, thank you!' He answered and quickly took a sip of his own tea to hide his confusion. She nodded contently.

'That's nice to hear. I'm all right too. A bit too much at work, but I don't mind actually, even if it means extra overtime to come here.' She smiled at him with something playful in her eyes and took a bite of the cake. 'You really keep us busy, Charles. There are those down at the bureau who are really annoyed with your research, but I tell them that you are in your full right to study whatever you want, even if it gives us some extra trouble. Please have some of the cake, by the way.' Automatically he took a piece, but he did not eat it.

'What!' he exclaimed nonplussed. 'How can my research trouble you? I have not published anything in ages. In fact, I have hardly mentioned it to anyone for years. And if you are implying that I am doing something illegal...'

'No, no. Not at all' she said quickly. 'Quite the opposite really. We are interested in your research and what you are finding out. As a matter of fact, that is why I am here. You wouldn't mind showing me, would you?'

'Well... he said hesitantly. I still have to check up on quite a number of facts and sources. It is not really in any state to be presented...'

'Oh, please, Charles. It's not like I am from the newspapers or anything. I am just curious.'

_Why not_ he thought, still very confused about what to believe about this young lady. _She is from the government after all. I will have to contact them with this sooner or later._

'Very well, miss' he said and put down his cup, about to raise, but she interrupted him.'

'Oh, please Charles. I don't want to force you through your tea. First we finish the cake, then we can look at the research. And please, call me Tonks.'

'Well, Tonks' he said, taking another sip from his cup. If you like...' they sat silent for a little while, and he suddenly realized that it was actually quite nice with company. That was only to scarce these days. The girl was a bit strange, but who wasn't these days? He took a bite of his cake.

'So what do you do at the ministry?' She took another bit of her cake and shot a glance through the window.

'Nice view you have here... Well, I am mostly in the field. I am just finished with an auror-exam... sort of police-work' she added quickly. 'But right now I work as an obliviator which is more boring, mostly, but usually less dangerous. And I meet some really interesting people.'

'Oh?' Obliviator? He wasn't sure what that was. It stirred some memories, though. Maybe he should ask.

'Oh yes. Like last week the whole department had to go up to Liverpool to sort out a werewolf alert, and then I spent almost the entire day with the night strollers who had seen it. It's the kind of people you never notice normally, but once you get to talk to them you realize that everyone have their own story to tell. Fashinating, really.'

'Sorry, did you say werewolf?' With a jerk, his thoughts were back at his research. That was impossible, wasn't it? But if there really were wizards? And there were some of those cases… The Luton massacre for example. No one had been able to explain that one.

'Well, that's what we call it, obviously...' Charles nodded impatiently and a bit disappointed. A code word. All trades were filled of them. But his thoughts were back on his research now, and his sense of duty was prodding him to go on. She worked at the ministry, after all, and he knew that he should tell them.

'Tonks, I am sorry to interrupt, but there is something of my research that I really should tell you. If you don't mind I would suggest us to take a look at it now.' She sighed and stood up.

'Well, all right Charles. Let's get to business.' She helped him up from the sofa (which embarrassed him slightly) and together they walked to his study. She was curiously looking around.

'Cool place. You have gathered information a long time, I take it?' He nodded, flattered by her attention.

'My whole life, miss. And this is probably my most exciting finding yet.' He picked up the paper he had scribbled on earlier in the day.

'You heard of this, miss?' she glanced at it and her face got serious.

'Oh yes. The Bristol murder. Terrible, but what else to expect. It was a college of mine who took care of it.'

'Oh? Well, I have reasons to believe that the conductor, as well as the victim, is, and was a wizard.' She regarded him a few seconds. She did not seem to be surprised.

'Wizard you say? And how did you come to that conclusion?' He was slightly taken aback, as he had been expecting more of a reaction of any kind, but he started to flip in his clip-book.

'It is not the only crime of its kind, Tonks. I have gathered some of the cases here, and I am sure there are more... Look. Locked room, no poison, no marks. How did they do that? And this one...' He went on, explaining his theory, elaborating it, admitting there was many blank spaces. Tonks listened with interest and made a few short comments. When he talked about the strange events of 1981 she nodded sadly.

'Yes, I remember that. I was not old, but it sort of made impression. The most feared wizards of all times finally beating it. It was like the whole wizard community suddenly started to breathe again.' Her voice was a bit far away, as she was talking to herself and her memories more than to Charles, but her words got through. He slowly turned and stared at her.

'The... wizard community?'

She smiled at him and took her hand from her pocket. She held a piece of wood in it.

'And back to work again, I am afraid. Thank you very much for the chat and the tea, Charles. I am afraid I will have to change a few things in your journal.' And she pointed the stick right towards his head.

_'Obliviate'_


	3. The owl taming conspiracy

_Rowling owns the wizarding world. I own Charles._

Today was grocery day. Charles woke up early, dressed in his best suit and, bringing his walking stick from the umbrella stand, walked out to the streets of London. The air was crisp. Charles walked with short, careful steps and took care not to allow his blood pressure to rise to much. Wet leaves made the pavement slippery and he had to make use of the walking stick many times.

As he crossed Lester Square a brown owl fluttered up from a tree, startled by his appearance. Charles watched it fly towards the sky with a smile. Unusual to see such a wild bird in the middle of the city, he mused. It had been a large one as well.

Charles was still thinking about owls when he half an hour later left the grocery store, carrying a rather heavy bag and four different newspapers (and a copy of _The Sun_ which he didn't regard as a newspaper at all, but still bought because there is always a second view on every subject, or, as it is, a third page). How unusual were owls really in the city these days? He knew that some animals, foxes for example, had adapted wonderfully to the new possibilities human settlements had offered. They lived in the small park areas and forgotten lots left between the houses and feasted on garbage and the occasional pet rabbit. Why shouldn't owls be able to do the same? Nest in trees and on roof tops, and eat the rats attracted by the humans ever growing garbage heaps, or something like that. Charles tried to remember what he had read about owl sightings. There had been peaks, he knew. Periods when the newspapers had reported unusually large number of owls. It had usually been explained as peaks in pray ability, or being connected to the weather. Charles politely mumbled a word of greeting to an elderly lady walking the opposite way. She smiled at him.

Charles curiosity was awoken. He decided to prolong his walk and turned right, proceeding down the street that would take him to the British Ornithologists' Union's office. He was well familiar with the location, even if he for the moment couldn't remember what business had brought him there earlier. After some slight difficulty in opening the heavy wooden doors he went inside. A middle aged man with large glasses greeted him and asked politely for his errand. Charles inquired about owls and was handed over to a young man in a small, stuffy room on the second floor. Charles repeated his inquires and was told to sit down in a quite worn but still comfortable chair. The young man, who had introduced himself as Herbert, rummaged with his files and folders, producing a large pile of papers for him. Charles read with rising interest. Herbert, as any specialist, clearly flattered by the interest shown for his particular subject, busied himself with brewing tea and finding a piece of rather stale cake. By the time Charles had finished reading he and the orionthologist sat in a pleasant chat over their cups.

"This peak in the beginning of the eighties seems to be the largest so far" Charles noted, pointing at a diagram. Herbert nodded.

"Yes. We have never seen anything like it. For a few weeks the whole country seemed to be filled by owls, flying to and fro like mad."

"But mostly in cities and villages?"

"Yes, strangely enough we did not se very much of a rise in the woodland owl populations. That indicate that they are adapting to city life, I suppose, just as you suspected."

"Did you see any rise in the rodent populations that year?" Charles asked, taking a piece of cake.

"Not really. And the climate was not more unstable that autumn than it usually is" the young man admitted.

"That is strange, isn't it?" Charles mused. Herbert nodded. They sat for a little while in that happy silence that is formed by good tea, nice conversation and pleasant company. Then Charles picked up the diagram again.

"How about the peaks in the summer -94 and the one in early summer the year after?" Do they show the same pattern?"

"Well, those peaks were not nearly as strong, especially not the one in -95, but yes, it was mostly city owls we saw. And no apparent natural cause for the increased activity either. Actually, we had a rat year just a few years before, with no peak in owl sightings. It is all quite confusing, really."

"That is strange" Charles agreed. "But there are natural fluctuations in their activity during the year as well, I suppose?"

"There are usually small peaks at autumns and springs" Herbert smiled. "We use to joke about the owls going to school, because the peaks often correlate with the boarding school term starts." Charles smiled to, but his forehead was wrinkled and he kept staring at the report on the table. An idea was beginning to take form.

"Here is a report about owls sighted in Scotland, flying in a straight line, almost like migratory birds or something. What do you make of that?"

"Hard to tell" Herbert shrugged. "We have a few of those sightings, but I can't really say what is in it for the owls. It is not what we regard as common behaviour."

"I shall tell you one thing" Charles said, pointing with his cup at the young man. "If life has taught me one thing it is that if strange things happens, you waste your time if you look for natural causes. Strangeness is more often than not caused by people. These owls are seen in human dwellings, they peak at times which don't seem to have natural explanations and they are behaving in ways they shouldn't. In my opinion, there is a human part of this story."

"And what would that part be?" Herbert asked with a smile.

"Maybe they are used to send letters?" a third voice cut in. Charles who had his back to the door turned around. There stood a young girl with blue hair, freckled nose and a black blouse. She smiled at them.

"You know, just like homing pigeons" she went on. "Wotcher Charles, hi Herbert!"

"Hi Tonks" said Herbert, giving her a familiar nod. "Thanks for coming at such short notice."

"Not at all. I was around anyway. May I sit down?"

"Of course" Herbert said, gallantly sweeping the papers of a chair and offering it to her. "Have the two of you met?"

"I don't think..." Charles begun, but the girl interrupted him.

"Sure! But it was awhile ago. I am not surprised if you don't remember me, Charles. I am Tonks, an old friend of Herbert." She offered him her and he shook it. Herbert gave her a cup of tea.

"You seem to be in a good mood" he commented.

"I should" Tonks smiled, her eyes twinkling. "My boyfriend finally starts to shape up. He has asked me out for a date and he has given me flowers and everything" she gave a short laugh "Oh, and he even starts to admit that he actually _is_ my boyfriend."

"Young men can sometimes be quite slow to come around" Charles commented. The girl laughed, a warm, affectionate laugh. Impulsively she put her and on Charles'.

"You are such a dear" she said, beaming at him. He shrugged.

"I am speaking of experience, miss. Anyway, since you heard the last part of our conversation I feel obliged to tell you that I am serious. I don't think the owls are used for postal service, necessarily, but I wouldn't at all be surprised if they are tamed by humans. I have seen some strange things in my days, and in my opinion that explanation does not make less sense than any other."

"So, how does that theory of yours explain the peaks in owl activity?" Herbert asked, clearly amused. Charles thought for a moment.

"Obviously it depends on the purpose of the owls, and the people controlling them. Maybe..."

"Maybe we send more letters at those times" Tonks suggested.

"I suppose so" Charles laughed. "If we are to stick with the homing owl theory, I think we would find those peaks correlate with when the owl tamers have more to talk about. Yes indeed, why not the start of terms. But what, young lady, do you mean by _we_?"

"Oh, you know" Tonks said airily, playing with a small stick of some kind she had produced from her pocket. "We. The owl taming conspiracy."

And she pointed the stick straight to his forehead.

_"Obliviate"_


End file.
